Watch Me Burn
by livingondaydreams
Summary: The ballad of Clarisse and Chris. Songfic to Love the Way You Lie Part II. T for strong language. R&R


**A/N: My first songfic attempt- give it a shot!** **Clarisse and Chris's story, set to _Love the Way You Lie (Part 2)_ by Rihanna feat. Eminem.** **I don't own LTWYL or PJO, obviously. If you want to read a truly awesome Chrisse fic, check out _Verge_ by Foaly Wins Forever. It's completely changed the way I see Chris (and Clarisse). **

**Rated T for Chris's insanity (obviously) and language (they have a very colorful vocabulary). Enjoy, and please remember to review!**

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><p><strong>Watch Me Burn<strong>

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><p><em>On the first page of our story<br>the future seemed so bright_

"And, parry! Thrust! C'mon Clarisse, take him down. Chris, are you really gonna take that from her? Fight back!" Luke kept up a constant stream of encouragements, taunts and instructions as the two young demigods fought. Clarisse La Rue and Chris Rodriguez, both eleven and unclaimed. Even though Clarisse had only been at camp for a week, she was definitely the superior swordsman of the two, and soon Chris was flat on the ground with Clarisse's blade poised on his chest.

Clarisse grinned smugly and took the point off, extending her hand to help him up. Chris grimaced (he _loathed_ being beaten by a girl) and started to struggle to his feet, reaching up to take her hand.

"Psych!" She yanked her hand back just as he grasped it, sending him tumbling facefirst into the dirt floor of the arena. Clarisse roared with laughter as Chris just got up and brush the dirt off, grumbling. He started to walk away. "What, you're not gonna fight back?"

He turned around, disbelieving. Clarisse sounded almost… disappointed? He shook his head slowly and said, "Nope. You'd just kick my butt again."

She stared at him, apparently deep in thought. He shifted his feet a bit and started to edge away. A smile spread across her face, replacing the contemplative expression that was making him so uneasy. "You know what, kid? I think you and I are gonna have a _lot_ of fun this summer."

Chris shuddered.

_Then this thing turned out so evil  
>I don't know why I'm still surprised<br>even angels have their wicked schemes  
>and you take that to new extremes <em>

Clarisse and Chris, fourteen now, sat at the campfire, singing along to the silly songs and goofing off in general. Sure, Thalia's tree was dying and the camp was in horrible danger, but right now Clarisse just let herself be a tiny bit happy—a rare emotion for the daughter of Ares. With Chris by her side in the warm light of the fire, she almost forgot about the threat. She almost forgot about Tantalus. She almost forgot about the war. She almost forgot about everything except for the campfire and her family and her friends.

The campers wrapped up a cacophonous rendition of "This Land Is Minos' Land" and everyone trailed off into laughter and a babble of easy conversation. Chiron was about to release them all for curfew when a spinning icon appeared over one of the unclaimed kids' heads. Demeter. Clarisse felt Chris tense next to her—he _still_ hadn't been claimed—but she didn't say anything. It was always like this when a glowing symbol marked someone _else_.

"All hail Adam Lynch, son of Demeter, goddess of the harvest, overseer of the cycles of life…" Chiron was saying. Chris stood up abruptly.

"You okay?" she whispered.

He looked at her for a second, his face unreadable, and muttered, "Yeah. Fine. Just gonna take a walk."

She nodded, and he walked away into the woods until he was completely surrounded by darkness.

It would be months before she saw him again.

_But you'll always be my hero  
>even though you've lost your mind<em>

The hot Phoenix sun blinded her momentarily as it reflected off a car passing by. Clarisse threw her hand up to shield her eyes, glaring at the offending vehicle. Like she wasn't pissed enough already.

She hated spending time away from camp. How would they survive without her? They were in the middle of a fucking _war_, for the gods' sakes, and Chiron was insisting that she go home and spend some time with her _mother?_ She wondered if the old horse had finally snapped from the pressure of teaching juvenile delinquents for millennia.

But Clarisse had gone to Phoenix like he asked, and here she was. Standing on the street outside of her mother's dojo in the middle of the city, hoping to get some fresh air after their daily fight. It wasn't that Mrs. La Rue was _mean_, per se, just… strict. Overbearingly strict. Decades of martial arts did that to a person. Of course, that was how she'd caught Ares's eye. She was disciplined, harsh, and would stop at nothing to reach her goals. Clarisse had gotten some of her personality from her mother, but she was a demigod, after all, and demigods were not meant for rules and stability.

Her musings were rudely interrupted when someone slammed into her, hard, from the alley next to the office building. She stumbled, but immediately settled into a fighting stance, fingering her steel knife that she kept especially for occasions such as this—mortals were worth fighting, too. And this creeper was about to learn that messing with Clarisse La Rue was a _very_ bad idea.

Then, she saw the creeper's face, and it was like someone had run up behind her, dumped a barrel of ice water on her head, and yelled, "Surprise!" as if it was the best thing in the world.

Chris Rodriguez had just attempted to tackle her in an alleyway in Phoenix. After betraying her—after betraying the camp, and the gods, and joining the fucking army of Kronos.

She hadn't even registered his expression or what he was wearing or anything but the fact that this _traitor_ was _here_ before she had tackled him to the ground behind the cover of a dumpster, her cold knife biting into the burned-scarlet skin of his neck.

She screamed at him, the words incomprehensible even to herself, and somewhere in the tiny part of her brain that _wasn't_ focusing on yelling at Chris, she wondered why she hadn't killed him yet. She was too outraged to take in what he was saying, the same thing over and over, because her vision was too tinted with red to register anything but his face.

"What—you're just going to sit there and say _nothing_, after everything you did? You _coward_!"

He looked up at her with wild, sunken eyes. It was infuriating. And then, she looked at him, really looked at him, and realized that something was wrong.

He was wearing armor, but it was disheveled and missing a few pieces, covered in burns and dark splotches that looked like dried blood. His clothes were in similar, if not worse shape. The smell coming off him was almost gag-inducing, even for her—like he hadn't been acquainted with a shower in months. His skin, which had been tan and tough that last summer, was the color of a rainy day under the scarlet sunburn, and adorned with a ghastly bouquet of black and yellow bruises and pink scars. (She'd seen worse, of course, but it was still jarring.)

"String. Mary, we have to… the string. He'll… Minos…"

The worst part, though, was his eyes. The light brown she had loved so much was now darkened to a muddy taupe that was somehow brokenly dull and vibrantly piercing at once. They darted around frantically, looking for something only he could see.

"Don't make me go back!" he pleaded. His gaze was fixed on her face, but she didn't think he was talking to her. "It's horrible. The arena… I don't…"

He was completely, horribly, totally, repulsively, one hundred percent insane.

She should have killed him right then and there. It would have been the smart thing to do. He was a traitor, after all, and now he was crazy, too. But something made her sheath her knife and take her knee off his chest. She straightened up, automatically brushing the dirt from her knees, and he stayed on the ground, still babbling.

"Come on, Chris," she grunted, hefting him up so that his arm was draped across her shoulders. "Let's get back to camp."

_Just gonna stand there and watch me burn  
>but that's all right because I like the way it hurts<br>just gonna stand there and hear me cry  
>but that's all right because I love the way you lie <em>

"It's so dark. Why is it so dark? Make it stop—make it _stop_!" he screamed. Clarisse winced. Again.

"Shh, Chris. It's alright. You're okay, you're not down there anymore. Remember? You're safe now. I'm here. You're alright." She kept up a constant stream of reassurances. All lies, of course.

She knew that he wasn't okay. He was very, very far from okay, in fact. He was, to put it frankly (and a bit harshly), a raving lunatic. Completely, utterly crazy, trapped in his own mind.

"Mary—have to save Mary. She can't—she's not…"

She knew that he was still down in the Labyrinth, if only in his head. But that was enough—he only needed to believe that he remained in that sadistic maze. He didn't see the cold, hard, plaster walls of the Big House's basement; he saw dark, twisting passageways and monsters and traps. He didn't see the daughter of Ares next to him; he saw a dead girl named Mary, whoever that was. Clarisse couldn't deny that she felt an even sharper pang whenever that name appeared in his fevered babblings. It was silly, really. For all she knew, Mary could have been, like, eight. She felt stupid and ridiculous for even imagining anything. Mysterious Mary didn't matter—she should be focusing on getting Chris better.

"It's horrible. They're dead—they're all dead! Skulls… So many skulls… He keeps them…"

She knew that he wasn't completely safe. There was still a war going on, after all. In fact, she shouldn't have been spending time down here, in this frigid cellar that was reserved for the dying and dead. But something kept her bound to Chris Rodriguez's side, regardless of her duties as the leader of the children of Ares.

"Stop it! I don't want to—don't make me—No! I don't _know_ you!"

And above all, she knew that Chris wasn't alright, and would never be alright. No matter how many reassuring lies escaped her mouth, he wouldn't ever be okay, or safe, or _sane_. And it killed her.

_So maybe I'm a masochist  
>I try to run but I don't wanna ever leave<br>til the walls are goin' up  
>in smoke with all our memories <em>

Her hand was on the brass doorknob leading to the basement when Chiron called her name from somewhere in the living room.

"Yeah?" she called back, not bothering to look back over her shoulder. The cold metal turned under her hand. As she opened the door, waiting for Chiron to say whatever he had to say, a thought struck her: six months ago, she never would have responded like this to her teacher, her mentor, her superior. She never would have replied with an absentminded affirmative and without a backwards glance while completely ignoring what he was really saying. The change was a bit disturbing, and, when she thought about it, so was the cause.

Her obsession—that's what it really was, after all—was getting out of hand. Chris had become the center of her world. There were other things that were important to her, too, of course—the war, her friends, her siblings—but he was the focal point. Nearly half of every day was spent (_wasted_, the voice in the back of her mind whispered) in the basement of the Big House, trying to console someone who would never be consoled.

She was so wrapped up in her disconcerting revelation that she jumped a bit (only mentally—daughters of Ares never jumped) when Chiron's hand landed on her shoulder.

"Clarisse, dear, would you mind joining me in the living room?"

She looked up at his face briefly. The old teacher was concerned—a sentiment not hidden in his expression. There was pity there, too. He knew as well as, if not better than she did that Chris wasn't going to heal. That she was fighting a losing battle—something the daughter of Ares could not (would not) accept.

"Sure," she found herself saying. She released her grip on the doorknob, leaving the door ajar, and followed Chiron into the worn-out, cozy collection of couches. The ping pong table was folded up next to the wall, but she could see the spot where, after someone had suggested that she focus on the war instead of her "whacko boyfriend downstairs," she had stabbed the cheap wood with her knife.

Whoops.

Chiron stood off to the side while she took a seat on one of the old leather loveseats. He gazed at her intensely for a while, like he was trying to read her mind and determine her relative level of sanity. Finally, he sighed.

"Clarisse, I think it would be best if you spent more time out of the basement. Get a bit of fresh air, be with your siblings, train…"

Her face became flushed with anger, shame, and—was it possible?—embarrassment. She knew he was right, of course. Hadn't she just been thinking the same thing? But it still…stung to hear him say it so frankly.

"He needs me. I _know_ you think it's stupid, but I'm not going to just give _up_ on him. I can't do that." Her voice was shocking even to herself. Angry and stubborn, which she expected. But desperate? When had Clarisse La Rue become _desperate_?

Desperation meant fear. Panic, even. And incompetency, stupidity, weakness… Everything she despised was contained in the puny, feeble, wild, uncontrollable emotion of _desperation_.

Chiron simply looked at her as if he knew exactly what she was thinking. Which he probably did.

"Your family and friends need you, too."

She stormed out of the room and down to the basement without another word to the old centaur.

_This morning, you wake, a sunray hits your face  
>smeared makeup as we lay in the wake of destruction<br>hush baby, speak softly, tell me you're awfully sorry _

"You're sure he's okay now?" she asked Chiron, once Mr. D. left.

"Yes, Caroline, I told you that," the camp-director-slash-god called from the top of the stairs. "It's nice to know you have so much trust in the god of insanity."

She bit back a curse. She should have listened for the sound of the door closing.

Chiron patted her on the shoulder, ducking his head slightly because of the low ceiling, and said, "He should wake up shortly. I'll be upstairs if you need anything."

He leapt up the stairs and shut the door softly behind him, leaving her with four walls, a door, some high windows, and (oh, right) a previously insane demigod on a worn cot. Early that morning, the day after the battle, Dionysus had returned and hopefully cured Chris. The sunlight was streaming in through the windows and the growling of her stomach reminded her that she hadn't left the dank basement since the healing, but she wasn't going to leave him alone down here.

She fed him another ambrosia square and looked at his face.

He had improved dramatically already; his cheeks were a bit less gaunt and hollow, his eyes less sunken, his skin less pale and sickly-looking. He was sleeping silently for the first time in… since she'd found him, really. He hadn't said a single word or moved once all morning. It was a little disconcerting, actually. To have seen him so close to death only yesterday, and now, to see him lying so still…

A tiny ray of sun broke across his face suddenly, and he squeezed his eyes more tightly shut, shattering the eerie calm. Her breath caught a bit, but she didn't move. He moaned, and his eyes opened.

They were clear, almost back to their normal color. No longer those of a wild, trapped animal; instead, they were simply confused. He looked around the room slowly, blinking often, and widening when his gaze rested on the girl at his bedside.

"How do you feel, Chris?" she asked carefully. Her voice was quiet, surprisingly tender. His eyebrows scrunched together, like he was trying to figure out what was happening.

"Clar…isse? But… how…?"

She sighed. He recognized her, at least. "You've been… insane for six months, Chris. How much do you remember?"

He raised his eyebrows. "I was insane?" His voiced cracked, and she handed him a glass of water.

"Yeah," she said quietly. "You're okay now, though. Mr. D. healed you."

It was surprisingly awkward. What do you say to someone who's been insane for half a year? To someone who had been your best friend, and then betrayed you? To someone who you've been obsessively nursing back to health 24/7? She had never been good at all that sentimental crap.

"What's that on your face?" he asked suddenly.

"What?" She reached up, and her hand came away streaked with black. Mascara. She laughed. "Silena Beauregard. She kinda attacked me when she heard you were better. Thought I might want to look 'nice,' as crazy as it sounds."

He gave her a cautious smile. "Because you've always been one for makeup. You know, I'm kinda surprised you haven't punched me already."

"Oh, don't worry, Chris." She grinned, and he shuddered slightly. "That's coming later."

Maybe it wouldn't be so awkward, after all.

_Two psychopaths but we  
>Know that no matter how many knives we put in each other's backs<br>That we'll have each other's backs,  
>'Cause we're that lucky<em>

"And, parry! Thrust! C'mon Chris, are you really gonna take that from me? Fight back!" She surprised him with a swift roundhouse kick to the head, and he flopped to the ground, exhausted. His lungs felt like they were burning, and Clarisse's combat boot planted on top of his chest didn't help matters much.

Every day since that morning he woke up had been like this—getting up at dawn for a long run (to rebuild his stamina and overall fitness, they told him), then a protein-rich breakfast in the infirmary (he wasn't allowed to be near the others yet), a psycho-analysis session from Chiron (the centaur insisted that he "come to terms with" his insanity), and then a grueling few hours of re-training from Clarisse.

"_Fuck_, Clarisse," he groaned. "It's not like there's going to be an attack tomorrow or something."

His personal trainer grimaced as she gripped his sweaty, calloused hand and yanked him upright again. "But, see, that's the thing, Chris," she said nonchalantly. She wasn't even _tired_. It was so unfair. "We never know when there'll be an attack. Sure, sometimes it's pretty obvious, like with the Battle of the Labyrinth," they both cringed slightly, and she continued, "but, like I was saying, we always have to be prepared in case they try to surprise us."

"I know, I know. You've said it a hundred times." He grabbed someone else's water bottle from a bench and drained half of it in one gulp. "I just… I dunno. I keep thinking that it's my fault, you know?"

He felt like a coward admitting it out loud, but it was true. If he hadn't joined Kronos's army, there would've been one less demigod fighting for him. Maybe he would'nt've risen as quickly… Maybe more people would have lived…

Clarisse fixed him with a steely glare, leaning casually against her spear as he recovered. "Listen good, Rodriguez. I'm not gonna tell you it's not your fault at all, and that you were just a victim and all that crap. It _is_ your fault, at least a little bit. You joined the other side, after all. But there's no way you could've prevented any of this by not joining. No one person can tip the scales _that_ much."

He grinned humorlessly. "Unless you're Prophecy Kid."

She snorted. "Yeah. But since you're _not_ destined to destroy the world and all that, your decision never really helped the Titans much. I mean, you were only on the ship for, what, a week? So it wasn't that important in the grand scheme of things."

"Gee, thanks, I feel so much better now," he said, rolling his eyes dramatically. "I'm really feeling the love, Clarisse."

"You should, actually. You're very lucky to have me. Now, fifty reps of that maneuver we were practicing before."

He groaned as she tossed him his sword, but went over to the dummies. Because messing with Clarisse La Rue was a _very_ bad idea.

_Together, we move mountains, let's not make mountains out of molehills,  
>you hit me twice, yeah, but who's countin'?<br>I may have hit you three times, I'm startin' to lose count  
>but together, we'll live forever, we found the youth fountain…<em>

_Just gonna stand there and watch me burn  
>but that's all right because I like the way it hurts<br>just gonna stand there and hear me cry  
>but that's all right because I love the way you lie<br>I love the way you lie  
><em>


End file.
